


Future In Progress

by pinetreelady



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-23 22:53:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14942883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinetreelady/pseuds/pinetreelady
Summary: Geno works on figuring out his future, and Sid is observant in sometimes inconvenient ways.





	Future In Progress

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Decibelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decibelle/gifts).



> Decibelle, I had a lot of fun picking and choosing from among the things you like. I hope you enjoy what I pulled together!
> 
> Many, many thanks to the usual suspect for the title, the summary, and truly epic amounts of hand-holding. You rock.

Zhenya’s mouthing dates for his world history midterm to himself as he pedals the bike, ignoring Tanger and Brass bickering quietly in French behind him. He’s so deep in his own head that he startles and nearly falls over when Sid touches his shoulder. 

“Whoa, there, G, where the heck were you?” Sid clasps his shoulder, then, steadying him.

“I’m right here, Sid,” Zhenya says, peddling faster to make up the pace. 

Sid just regards him for a moment, looking pensive. He smiles, though. “If you say so.”

“Need something?” Zhenya asks, hoping his tone conveys how much he’d really rather finish his cool-down in peace, thanks. He doesn’t have time for Sid’s _anything_ right now.

"Just checking in. Making sure everything’s okay with you." Sid says. 

Message not received, then. “I’m fine.”

Sid barrels on. "It's just, you've been a little quiet lately." He pulls his arm into a stretch, grabbing his elbow and pulling it across his body. 

Zhenya resolutely looks away from the bunch and glide of the muscles under his skin. Sid switches arms. "You're not coming out with the guys so much, you’re not staying out late when you do, you’re like, barely drinking? -- it's just not quite like you."

Zhenya thinks of the excuses he's been using since, basically, training camp when the guys started trickling back into Pittsburgh. The way he’s dismissed the guys' invitations to play cards by boasting that they don't really want to play with him, because he's better than all of them anyway. The jokes about how he needs his beauty sleep when he heads out early. How he doesn’t want to make them feel bad when they all get a hangover because they can’t match his tolerance. 

Somehow he can't muster the right words to dismiss Sid the same way. It feels too much like lying when he’s spent his entire adult life being truthful with Sid -- at least about what’s important, he thinks, carefully tucking his attraction away.

Zhenya lets the bike wind down, now, as the timer sounds. He picks up his towel and wipes his face. Sid's no longer stretching, just standing there, regarding him evenly. 

"It's nothing, Sid," he says, finally, letting the towel muffle his words a little.

Sid looks around at the guys all around and nods. Mercifully, he doesn’t push anymore. "Okay, G," he says quietly, and ambles out the door, easy as you please. Zhenya’s relieved, but wary. Sid never lets anything go that easily. 

Zhenya climbs off the bike and gets down on the mat to stretch his hamstrings. When he walks by the window a few minutes later, the already dreary day has given way to rain.

He scowls at it. Rain means his control is slipping. Of all the ridiculous otherworldly talents to have been born with, the ability to broadcast his emotional state via precipitation must be the most useless of all.

And lately, it’s been harder than ever to hold it together. 

He really thought he had a handle on it by now. His first two classes had been intro-level classes, and they’d eased him in and he’d done well enough that this summer he’d registered for an upper-level seminar, one with a heavier workload and a truly daunting reading list. A few weeks in, there’s been an increase of thunderstorms, little cells that materialize on his weather app’s radar right in Sewickley, probably to the consternation of the local meteorologists. It hasn’t been this bad since his first year in the NHL.

It’s possible he’s bitten off more than he can chew, juggling hockey, school ... his latent attraction to Sid. The feeling not of mortality, exactly, but he can see the upper limit, now, of his hockey career, in a way that felt immensely distant not all that long ago.

*

He pulls into his driveway and blinks at the car -- Sid’s car -- sitting there already. Sid has the code for the gate, of course, but generally speaking he’s too polite to use it. He must really be worried.

Zhenya closes his eyes briefly, breathing carefully to settle his control.

He grabs his bag out of the back and slings it over his shoulder, before heading over to Sid’s car. He taps at the window, through which he can see Sid peering at his phone.

Sid looks up and smiles at him, and Zhenya steps back so Sid can open the door and hop out. "I figured you'd blow me off if I tried to make a plan ahead of time," he says, and damn him.

Zhenya shakes his head, resigned. He's such a stubborn fucker.

"We can watch the Habs game and order food," Sid suggests in that way of his that doesn’t leave any room for denial. Devastatingly, he adds, “I’ve missed hanging out with you,” which means Zhenya’s powerless to dismiss him.

Zhenya doesn't answer, but he can hear Sid trailing along behind him as he heads for the door.

He scowls down at the doorknob as he fumbles his keys, and feels a fat drop of rain hit his arm.

"The weather is seriously weird today," Sid says, and when Zhenya looks over his shoulder at him, Sid's squinting at the sky. “My phone said it was supposed to be clear this afternoon.”

Zhenya looks up at the sky, too, and lets all his feelings flow through him. How hard it is to be Sid's teammate and his close friend but never try for more, never even hint at it. How hard it's been to keep his life and heart in neat little boxes, separating hockey and school and what he gets to feel freely and what needs to stay hidden. Above them, thunder rumbles.

"Yeah, weird," he agrees, as the door swings open and he ushers Sid inside, just as the sky opens up and rain pours down. 

He takes his time hanging up his hoodie and straightens the shoes he’d usually leave carelessly kicked into the corner, planning a way to tell Sid he can’t stay for the entire game. Zhenya needs to make the time to study later on. But the words die in his throat when he comes around the corner and sees Sid making himself at home, shoes off, rifling through the stack of takeout menus Zhenya keeps on his breakfast bar. 

Sid looks up at him, eyes bright, and Zhenya smiles. “What food do you want?”

*

It’s the first intermission and Zhenya clears up their plates and glasses from the coffee table. It’s a surprisingly tight game, better than he’d expected from Montreal and Arizona.

This fact is not conducive to Zhenya’s conflicting desires: to use the rest of the evening to study, or to relax and spend more time with Sid. He has reading to do and an essay to start. Well, technically the reading is review for next week’s exam, and the paper’s not due for a month, but still: he has a schedule to stick to and Sid’s presence hampers that. The only way to stay on top of hockey and not fall behind on his school work is ruthless discipline.

Spending time with Sid wins, though. He’s just going to have to push his work a little later, is all, or maybe he can stealthily review his notes while Sid’s distracted.

He’s rinsing glasses and putting them in the dishwasher when he hears Sid emerge from the bathroom.

He parks a hip against the counter while Zhenya wipes up splashes, and then follows him back to the den. Sid tucks himself into the corner of his couch, and any remaining thought Zhenya had about asking him to go melts away. 

Sid reaches for the remote as the puck drops for the second period, and Zhenya sighs to himself. “Who you think’s gonna score next?” and then settles in to listen to Sid’s analysis, far superior to anything the idiots on the TV have to say.

Even so, Zhenya grabs his iPad and surreptitiously attempts to split his attention between hockey and reviewing his notes while Sid’s absorbed in the game. 

He concentrates hard and blocks out the English-language commentary from the TV, and reads through his carefully-transcribed notes. 

Zhenya belatedly realizes that Sid’s trying to get his attention. “Wow, Geno, what’s got you so absorbed?” 

Zhenya starts guiltily. “Sorry, Sid, I’m --” He squints at the score. Habs power play, tied at 3, 4 minutes to play. How’d the Habs catch up?

“How’s Habs catch up,” he says aloud.

“You’d know if you weren’t --” Sid gestures at his iPad with a half-smile that’s not quite a smirk.

He says it like a chirp, but Zhenya can’t quite respond in kind. He stares fixedly at the TV.

“C’mon, G, why don’t you tell me what’s going on, then,” Sid says gently.

“Do you need me to go?” Sid asks uncertainly, and moves as if to stand.

Zhenya sighs and sets down the iPad, tucking it in between the couch cushions. “Stay, Sid.”

Sid gestures at the TV. “Let’s watch the rest, yeah? And then you can tell me, if you want, or else I’ll just go. All good.”

Zhenya’s not fooled. Sid’s polite, sure, but he’s also nosy as hell. Zhenya would never call him a gossip, the way some of the guys are; he doesn’t spill other people’s secrets. But Sid always likes to know everything about everyone: food preferences, childhood hobbies, esoteric facts about not just teammates but coaches and staff and, well, everyone. He gathers and gleans details and files them away like a chipmunk preparing for winter.

It was only a matter of time until Zhenya cracked. And he’s self-aware enough to realize that on some level, he wanted Sid to press him to spill so he can share it with him. The clock ticks down toward the end of the period, the Habs holding onto their lead through the empty net, Pricey making a big save on Domi. 

Zhenya kills the TV, tosses the remote on the table, and gathers his courage. 

“Have to promise not to tell anyone, if I say. It’s big secret.”

“Geno, you know you can trust me,” Sid says slowly.

“I’m take college classes, Sid,” he says.

Sid’s mouth falls open, and he blinks at Zhenya, leaning back in his chair. He opens his mouth, then closes it again before saying, “Wow. I never saw this coming, I have to tell you.” He laughs a little, then says, “Classes, plural? As in -- more than one?”

Zhenya nods. “Is my third one, now. Did intro classes, before, but this one, it’s kicking my ass,” he admits.

“Wow,” Sid says. And Zhenya wishes he’d known earlier what it would take to render Sid speechless, because a small part of him is finding this funny. 

 

“You know I took one, a couple of years back,” Sid says. “I maybe should’ve figured out that’s what you were doing.”

Sid has inflated confidence in his own powers of observation. Zhenya says, smugly, “I hide it from you on purpose.”

“You did not, you dick,” Sid says. “You just swore me to secrecy. That means it wasn’t just me, you were hiding it from everyone.”

Zhenya waves his hand dismissively. 

“But I stopped after one, I can’t imagine you’re keeping going like this.” Sid sounds admiring. “Are you, like, working on a degree or something now?”

Zhenya shrugs. His vague dreams for the future resist articulation. It’s easier to just say, “Don’t think about, really. Just trying, now, because I’m like it, and it’s good for my English, you know?”

Sid nods thoughtfully. “It’s impressive, G,” and Zhenya’s not sure if he means taking classes or having hidden it from everyone successfully, but he doesn't much care. 

He’ll bask in Sid’s approval for a few minutes anyway.

“So, you see me act different, you think other guys know anything?”

It does seem weird that no one gave him a hard time; if Sid noticed, what about anyone else? 

Sid laughs, eyes disappearing into crinkles. “It’s not that they’re unobservant,” he says equivocally.

Zhenya chuckles. Sid’s a master of understatement, but really, no one is more clueless than hockey players when they’re focused on their own shit. Still. “Sometimes pretty nosy, anyway,” he says.

Sid bobs his head, nodding. “No, for sure, but I don’t -- I don’t think they’re tuned into what you’re up to, for the most part. They mostly worry about you fining them if they get in your face.”

“The newer guys, they’re scared of me,” -- which is pretty much the way Zhenya prefers it. 

Sid rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. You’re super scary.”

Zhenya preens ostentatiously.  
.  
“But for real? Now that I know what’s up with you, I’ll help run interference with the guys, or like, help you study, if you want. I picked up a few things, and Taylor was super helpful.” It’s so like him to want to take charge, Zhenya thinks with helpless affection. 

Zhenya leans back, smirking at Sid, to try to keep his feelings under control. “Not need captain for college class, Sid,” he says.

Sid doesn’t even bat an eye.

“I know you don’t need that, Geno, obviously you’ve been managing fine, but I can help if you want me to, is all.”

*

And after that, things _are_ easier. Having Sid’s almost-invisible solidarity means Phil and Tanger hassle him less, because Sid manages them expertly, deflecting their attention so Zhenya can get to his hotel room on road trips, or quickly go home after a team meal, without having to make excuses for why he has to disappear on them. 

Zhenya even notices Sid filling in at cards at least once, and that -- that’s a true gift, because Sid hates cards, hates the randomness of it and how he can’t manipulate circumstances to win consistently.

Sid invites him to dinner on a day when they’re home, when they had practice and video review but a free evening. Zhenya wonders if they should’ve invited Tanger, to make it part of the leadership group, but, he reasons, he’s busy with Cath and Alex, anyway. He likes sharing a secret with Sid, though, it gives him a little thrill to think of them in this together, and if he lets himself feel a little as if this is a date, no one has to know.

“What made you decide to take a class, anyway?” Sid asks him after their server takes their order. 

Zhenya blows out a breath, and shrugs. “When you take one, why you do?” He counters.

“My mom made me,” Sid says, wry.

Zhenya cracks up. 

“Why are you laughing, she _did_ , she gets these ideas in her head and it’s just easier to do what she wants.”

“Yes, Mama Crosby very scary,” Zhenya says, lip twitching.

“Fuck you, besides, I hear you deflecting. I asked you why _you_ signed up for a class.”

Zhenya thinks for a moment, and gets a reprieve when the server brings their meals.

He knows exactly why he’d started: because he was tired of people -- wait staff, coaching staff, PR people, especially the fucking talking heads on TV -- treating him like he was stupid. He knew his English sounded shitty even once he achieved a decent level of fluency, and he sometimes wished he’d worked on it more when he was younger.

(Rainstorms, really. Wouldn’t time travel be more useful? He swears he’d never do anything destructive to the timeline, he’d just make his younger self take English class more seriously.) 

He’d also thought it might help him develop some more discipline, both on the ice and with regard to the weather. 

He was better, lately, at skating away when someone was starting shit with him. But sometimes, it welled up inside him, and he couldn’t hold it in. And couldn’t let it out in the form of showers or thunderstorms or whipping winds, not on the ice. So it would bubble out and next thing he knew he’d be in the penalty box again, hoping the team could hold it together without him.

Zhenya has no idea how to put any of this into words for Sid. He draws in a breath and glances over at Sid, who looks amused from across the table, spreading his napkin on his lap. “Lost you for awhile over there.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Zhenya says.

“No, but really -- I didn’t think it was that hard a question.”

“I know. It’s -- complicate. I remember, couple years ago, we got email from PA, and I’m just think, lots of guys have degree, and none of them is smarter than me.” He’d never felt inferior for that -- he likes that hockey of all sports has myriad paths to success, through college or juniors or the draft or European leagues and of course the KHL. 

Sid rolls his eyes. “None of them, G?” 

“Shhh. I’m smart, like you, hockey IQ, you know? But I’m wanting -- prove it, prove I’m good.” It’s kind of addictive, the validation of a good grade, a feeling of accomplishment aside from hockey awards and trophies. “I’m keep going, because it feels good.”

He swirls his wine in the class, then chances a look at Sid, whose eyebrows are raised. “So you _are_ thinking about getting a degree, then?”

“Well, maybe. But I’m -- maybe I’m should do in Russia, because language, it’s hard. But I’m think, maybe I’m coach in college, here, and college coaches need that. Or I’m maybe agent? Help Russian players come to NHL? Then I’m need business, and law.” He shrugs. 

Sid’s smiling at him affectionately. “I’ve thought of that, too, the idea of needing a degree for whatever I want to do next, after hockey.” He leans forward to rap his knuckles softly against the tabletop, smiling wryly.

Zhenya smiles too. Sid’s superstitious, but aren’t they all.

“You know, you don’t need a degree, though. Look at, like, Gonch. He’s a great coach, and he’s in a great position to help younger players develop. He gives back.”

Zhenya nods, and sips at his wine. “Is true. I’m just, I keep think about what to do, and I’m -- I’m like challenge, you know? Pushing myself to get better, more skills -- like with hockey, only, is real life.”

Sid huffs out a quiet laugh. 

“Why’s funny?” 

Sid lifts a shoulder. “Just, hearing you say that out loud -- it’s… it’s funny, but cool, you know, hearing someone else, hearing _you_ articulate the same kinds of thoughts that float around my head sometimes.”

The thought warms Zhenya, that they’re thinking along similar lines. 

“I’ve spent so many years -- and so have you -- honing skills, pushing myself to get better at specific things, setting goals for myself, assessing my progress. I think more than hockey itself, what I’d miss in retirement is that feeling of working toward something.”

Zhenya leans forward, toward Sid. “Yes! Is exactly what I’m think, too, Sid. Don’t want to just stop getting better. And,” he frowns for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “Hockey -- it give so much to me, you know? I want -- share that with other players. Help them get so much from hockey too.”

“Anything,” Sid says, and bumps their elbows together. “Thanks for telling me that, by the way. I like -- I like knowing more about you.”

That warm feeling returns to Zhenya’s chest. “Yeah,” he says. It’s nice that even after all this time, there’s more for them to learn about each other. He likes knowing Sid and being known by Sid.

*

As the deadline for his paper looms, Zhenya shoots Sid a text. _You can proofread paper for me?_

Sid’s response comes right away. _For sure!_

Zhenya sends it off to him and feels strangely nervous. He thought he’d shaken this degree of uncertainty after his first class, but somehow sending it to Sid feels different, like he’s exposing himself. Vulnerable. 

He needn’t have worried.

Sid sends him back meticulous comments and corrections, because, unsurprisingly, he puts the same care and effort into that as he does into everything else that’s important to him.

 _Thanks, Sid_ he sends back, sincerely. _Paper’s gonna be much better from your help_

His papers have been the weak part of his schoolwork. The reading is hard, but his memory is good and he’s learned to take good notes, which also helps in absorbing the material from the lectures. The exams are challenging, but he has held his own. But writing an essay in English, that’s been hard, even with the professor and the TA helping him along.

Sid’s feedback, though. This is going to make his work that much better. 

He catches Sid on the way out of the training room, and murmurs, “I send you parts again, so you can check English again?” He hates to impose, but Sid made it so much better. 

“Of course, Geno, anytime.”

Zhenya’s hardly even noticed how easy it’s been to control his emotions over the rain. Until a big nasty loss at the Capitals followed by an argument with an annoying, condescending asshole on the class’s discussion board. Zhenya sleeps for shit and shows up for practice with heavy clouds overhead.

“What the fuck, it was supposed to be nice today,” Tanger bitches at Dumo, who makes sympathetic noises. 

“We were supposed to go to that new place that opened in Market Square after.”

Zhenya can hardly help the spiteful feeling of _I’m glad I won’t be hassled into sitting on the terrace of some dumb hipster restaurant now._

He tries not to use his powers to get out of plans, or ruin things for others, but sometimes it seems to happen anyway. At least not since he was a teenager, when he’d definitely used it to fuck with people or get revenge someone for being a dick. Today, though, he can’t bring himself to fight the feeling of satisfaction. He has to work on his essay.

Sid texts him that night. _How’s the paper going?_

Zhenya scowls at his phone. It’s not cooperating, is the thing. _Stupid,_ he replies, and he’s not sure if he means the paper or himself, at this point. He rakes his hand through his hair, a habit he’s been trying to quit because he’s sure it’s not helping his receding hairline. 

He puts his phone back down and turns the TV off, opens up his laptop again.

 _I’m going to send you a link to my lucky studying playlist,_ he reads, when his phone chimes again.

Zhenya rolls his eyes. Seriously, as if music’s going to make a difference. Besides, Sid has shit taste in music. 

The link comes, though, and Zhenya clicks it because he’s still procrastinating. It probably can’t make things worse, and it’s possible that it’ll actually help. He puts on his headphones, hits play on Sid’s link, and starts typing.

*

The next morning, he looks over what he was writing and it’s not half bad. 

_Thanks for music,_ he texts.

It wasn’t so different from the other generic electronica he's found, but something about knowing it's Sid's list, that Sid shared with him voluntarily, warms him.

Sid sends back a smiley emoji in response.

It’s dumb to think that a playlist could help, but Zhenya can’t argue with results. 

Later, at the rink, Zhenya ventures to ask if he has other playlists -- this one is named #7, so there must be more -- but Sid says, witheringly, “What, so you can make fun of my taste in music? No, thank you.” And he steals the puck right off Zhenya’s stick and neatly buries it in the net.

Zhenya scowls. It’s embarrassing to admit even to himself that Sid being a little bit of a dick appeals to him so hard. 

*

Zhenya gets home and he's lounging on his couch and reading dumb jokes on his phone, when the buzzer for the driveway gate buzzes. He's not expecting anyone, but maybe there's a delivery? That's the usual thing.

He peers out his front window and sees the FedEx truck idling behind the gate so he hits the button for the gate and waits by the front door until the driver hops out.

Zhenya exchanges pleasantries with the driver, who's either too busy or doesn't really care that Zhenya's a hockey star. It's always a relief, honestly, when that happens.

He carries the box inside, mystified. He hasn't ordered anything, wasn't expecting a package from home. He squints down at the return address and -- really?

He opens the box, which is carefully packed and even has a styrofoam cooler and cold packs to hold some of it. 

He investigates and finds it's ... snacks. Little bags of trail mix and pretzels. Packets of salted peanuts, carrots, hummus. Apples. As if he doesn't have these exact things in his own cupboards virtually all the time. He rolls his eyes. 

_You think I'm not know how to feed myself?_ he sends to Sid, before opening the fridge to put the perishables away.

 _You could just say thank you_ Sid texts back. 

Zhenya smiles at such a perfectly, crabbily, Sid response. Of course he could just thank Sid, but where's the fun in that? He stuffs the packs of peanuts, the tiny portions of almonds, the -- he squints at the label -- roasted chickpeas -- away. 

_Thank you, Sid_ he texts.

Sid sends a scowly-face emoji. 

_What_ Zhenya texts. _I'm say thank you, and you send mean face_

 _It’s good for you. Brain food._ Sid writes. Then _Just write your paper and stop arguing_.

Zhenya writes back, and smiles. 

As soon as he realizes that he’s pretty much flirting with Sid he puts his phone down firmly and bypasses the couch to sit at his computer to take another stab at his revisions. If he grabs a string cheese and a pack of peanuts from the stash Sid sent, well. They _are_ good study snacks.

*

The professor emails their grades a few days before Christmas, and Zhenya opens it with less trepidation than usual. He feels _good_ about this class. He knows he did well, that his final paper was solid this time. 

Sure enough, he has an A, and positive remarks from his professor.

Even before he texts his parents, he sends off a text to Sid. 

_Geno, that’s awesome! You should be proud of yourself_

_Thanks, Sid_ he texts back. _You help lots_

_Want to celebrate?_

And Zhenya does. _Yes, come over later? We eat pizza and drink wine._

Zhenya smiles at him at practice, and Sid beams back at him. It makes Zhenya’s chest feel warm, and he looks away before Tanger or Horny can notice and give him grief. 

Sid insists on picking up the pizza, but Zhenya digs a really nice bottle of red out of his cellar.

Sid raises his eyebrows when he sees it, but Zhenya refuses to be cowed. “I’m like good wine, even with pizza, Sid.” He says, judgy.

Sid just shakes his head a little, but he’s smiling. He pretends like he doesn’t care, perfectly happy drinking rotgut if that’s what’s on offer, but Zhenya knows he appreciates the good stuff, too.

He unloads a Greek salad out of the bag on top of the pizza. 

“Salad, Sid?” Zhenya has to chirp him, because otherwise he’ll grab hold of this endearing man and never let him go.

“Just because we’re eating pizza doesn’t mean we can’t have a fucking vegetable, Geno,” Sid says, and rummages in Geno’s cupboards for bowls to serve it in. He stacks them on top of the plates Zhenya already set out, and Zhenya pours the wine.

Sid commandeers the remote and puts on the Leafs game. 

They bicker amiably about the Leafs’ defensive corps and how likely they are to break their Cup drought anytime soon, and eat and drink. It feels good to sit around without classwork hanging over his head, and it’s possible Zhenya drinks a little more than he should, because he opens another bottle of wine in the second intermission. 

The color rises in Sid’s cheeks and he looks flushed and appealing.

Sid sets down his empty glass and pushes himself off the couch. “I could use some water, you want some?”

That would be a good idea. “Yes.”

He trails along after Sid, bringing his own empty glass and the bottle too. He rinses the bottle and sets it by the door to the garage to put with the recycling, and puts their glasses in the dishwasher. Sid’s got two full water glasses in his hands, and he passes one to Zhenya. 

“I should sober up a little before I head out,” he says, after downing half the glass. 

That’s fine with Zhenya. He’s not really ready for the evening to be over yet. Sid refills their glasses and they settle back on the couch again. Sid’s sitting closer than he was before, Zhenya’s sure of it. 

“Did acing this class help you decide if you’re going to take another class soon?”

“I’m still worry about spring semester,” Zhenya says. The idea of trying to do school while gearing toward a playoff run seems impossible. “But if I’m only take one class a year, I’m gonna be old when I’m finish, so I’m not know, yet.” Not for the first time he envies the guys who went the NCAA route to be here in the NHL. Even if they left after a year or two of school, they managed to earn a lot of credits. 

“I’m still think,” Zhenya says. It’s true -- he’s been thinking more about the future in general, these past few weeks, ever since telling Sid his secret. 

“Yeah?” Sid asks. “Like, what else?”

Zhenya lifts a shoulder. There was a time when playing pro hockey was the only future he could imagine. Must be he’s growing up. “I’m think about what I want after hockey some more, what I’m want my life to be like.”

Sid’s smiling at him, and he tucks his feet under Zhenya’s thigh. Zhenya’s breath catches, and he has to look away from the way the light catches Sid’s eyes.

“I’m think, I don’t want to do degree in Russia, even if language is hard. I’m want to stay here.”

“I’m glad, Geno. I’d miss you a lot, if you went back. I’ve,” Sid pauses, bites his lip. “It’d be weird, to not have you around.” 

Zhenya can’t imagine leaving, one day, not having Sid be a part of his life day in and day out. He’s probably got that written all over his face, too.

“Geno, I don’t know if I’m, like, reading things all wrong here or not,” Sid says, finally, after long moments of just holding eye contact.

Zhenya’s stomach lurches a little in anticipation, and he takes a deep breath. Hope curls up his chest and he opens his mouth, bites his lip.

“Reading what,” he manages to say, and his voice sounds a little croaky. He clears his throat.

Sid’s not quite meeting his eyes. “I really like the time we’ve spent together lately,” he says.

“Me too, Sid,” Geno says, and he feels heat rise in his cheeks, on the back of his neck. “I’m like it, too, and you -- you help me so much, this class, it’s so much more easy than other ones, because I’m feel like you have my back.”

Sid leans closer, and then pauses. “I --” he starts to say, but stops.

“It’s not just this, Sid,” Zhenya says. His breathing isn’t quite even. Why is this so hard to say aloud? “I’m like that we share this, that --” he breaks off, frustrated by how to say _I like this new intimacy between us, sharing something meaningful outside of hockey, hints of a future barely articulated_.

Maybe he doesn’t need words, though, Zhenya thinks recklessly. They’ve sobered up; there’s no way Sid would be ready to drive home if he were still feeling the slightest bit tipsy. But Zhenya thinks -- and he hopes -- and so he reaches out and takes Sid’s hand in his, curves his fingers around Sid’s and strokes his thumb over Sid’s knuckles. 

Sid raises his head to meet Zhenya’s eyes, and the eye contact lasts a beat and then another, and it should feel awkward, but Sid smiles and in one fluid motion leans all the way into Zhenya’s space and reaches up to grab the back of Zhenya’s neck, pulling him down so their lips meet.

Zhenya squeezes Sid’s hand before letting go and instead slipping his arm around Sid’s back to draw him closer still. Sid slips his hand to Zhenya’s cheek, and he angles his head to bring their mouths together and Zhenya gets lost in the soft meeting and parting of their mouths for long minutes.

When they finally pull away to breathe, Zhenya rests his forehead against Sid’s hair. He worries that the surfeit of emotion he’s feeling will spill over and make the weather crazy, but nothing seems to be happening. 

When Sid finally pulls away, declaring that he needs to get home, Zhenya reluctantly lets him go.

They linger at the door, and Zhenya peeks out, where the heavy grey chill from earlier has given way to fat flakes of snow, coating his front walk. 

“Pretty,” Sid murmurs, before squeezing Zhenya’s hand and heading to his car.

Zhenya looks at his footprints in the snow, and thinks that next time, he’ll do his best to bring down a blizzard so Sid will have to stay the night.


End file.
